


Inauguration

by athena_crikey



Series: Into the Fire [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Yes Minister, Yes Prime Minister
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The newly-minted Prime Minister Hacker receives another first-time visitor; this one comes through the fire-place. Bernard is forced to answer questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inauguration

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written June 2010. Working backwards from book six, it seemed that the original Voldemort era would have been smack in the middle of the Hacker premiership. Looking it up on wiki I found that wasn't true. So, in time honoured fashion, I ignored wiki and went ahead anyway.

It had been a long day.

The Prime Minister, Bernard suspected, had coasted through his first day in office largely on the strength of the overflowing elation of being officially named the 50th Prime Minister of Great Britain and North Ireland. There had been the audience with the Queen and the formal request to form government, copious greetings and speeches in Number 10, media photographs, phone calls to and from foreign dignitaries, and, peppered throughout, rounds and rounds of introductions and hand-shaking. Additionally, of course, there had been more personal details for the Prime Minister to consider as well: the structure and lay-out of Number 10 and the security measures in place for his personal safety, the moving of his possessions into Number 10, and his schedule for the immediate future.

Bernard, on top of ensuring that the Prime Minister attended to all that and did so without appearing to be at a loss for anyone’s name or, if necessary after a particularly sticky hand-shake, a clean handkerchief, also had his own matters to contend with. Not unreasonably, the former Prime Minister’s principal private secretary hadn't looked kindly on the less experienced high flyer who had soared up from the DAA to take her place; nor had her staff. The Prime Minister’s principal private secretary had triple the number of private secretaries working for him as had a Minister’s, and Bernard was starting to wonder where he was going to find the time to organize the men and women under him, never mind the man above him. It seemed unfair that he had all that to do without any bright elation to support him, so at 7:30 when he was still sorting through a single day’s worth of accumulated notices at his new desk outside the Prime Minister’s office, he made do with some sherry instead, and tried to ignore the prickling at the back of his neck as his dull magical senses screamed at him.

The whole of Number 10 hummed with magic, of course. Unlike the DAA, which was not on anyone’s list of top 10 ministries to eradicate (except for sound financial reasons), Number 10 was a prime target for both magical and non-magical assault. The more important offices practically creaked with protective spellwork; Bernard had nearly had his briefcase light on fire on the one occasion he brought his wand in it to meet the then-Minister at the Cabinet room, and had had to make an embarrassing run to the men’s loo to rectify the problem. The entirety of the building had had charms and curses heaped on it haphazardly over the ages, so that some corridors were nearly crooked with the effort of fitting all that magic into a confined space. Typical wizard planning.

But the spells woven around the Prime Minister’s private office were of a different order: the place was clearly designed to be a fall-out shelter. Even Bernard, whose magical perception was less than acute, could feel the enchantments from yards away. If magic had been heat, the private office would have been a blast-furnace. Sitting with his back to it made his skin creep. It would take a lot of getting used to.

Bernard took a sip of his sherry - dry; they would really have to get some sweet in - and made another precise note in his clear hand. Slotted the memo away in the appropriate file, and reached for the next. And dropped his pen in shock, sitting up so abruptly he spilled sherry all over his notebook.

Behind him, the wards around the Prime Minister’s office had all flared bright as a Roman candle, searing into his magical senses. Bernard stood, chair slamming into the backs of his knees, and snatched the intercom phone from his desk. There was a click, and then the buzzing of it ringing. It rang twice, and then fell dead. No use calling security - a gun was useless against a wand without the element of surprise.

Bernard grabbed his briefcase from where it was sitting beside his desk and threw it onto the cluttered surface, reports flying this way and that. Snapped it open, and scrabbled in the lining for his wand. It had been months since he’d last taken it out - suppose it had fallen out, or he’d forgotten to put it back in, or - his searching fingers touched wood, and it glowed warmly in response.

Wand in hand, he staggered over to the heavy door and cautiously tried the handle. Locked, of course. There was no point shouting; the room was made to be soundproof, and if the non-magical architects hadn’t managed it the wizards probably had.

Shaking, Bernard raised his wand and in the grey haze of panic to remember spells learnt nearly 30 years ago. Then gave up, and focused on his more recent college education. “Aperio!” The door shook, but held firm. “Effringo!” It rocked on its hinges, wood creaking, but didn’t give. Wracking his brains, Bernard drew the wand back and then snapped it at the door, shouting, “ _Frango!_ ” There was a thunderous crash and it slammed inwards on its hinges, air thick with dust and dried paint chips knocked loose by the blast.

It suddenly occured to Bernard that, now that he had opened the door, he would have to face whoever was on the other side of it. And, just as suddenly, that not only was he woefully out of practice in spells of any kind, he had never been any good at dueling. Holding his wand in a tight, sweaty grip and breathing heavily, he scuttled forward into the room.

“Prime Minister? Are you alright?” He would have been more intimidating if his voice hadn’t been shaking like a shelf of china in an earthquake.

The Prime Minister, he saw through terror-ridden eyes, was standing in a corner with the shell-shocked expression he tended to assume when a disapproving call from Number 10 was about to come through. In front of him a short dumpy woman with a face like a horse was standing with a stocky wand in hand; she was wearing severe tweed robes, and holding the wand with the attitude of a cocked gun.

“Crikey,” bleated Bernard, recognizing her, and dropped his wand. The Minister for Magic, Millicent Bugnold. She was the former Head of the Treasury Department, but looked more like a former Beater, as the press hadn’t been behind in pointing out.

“Who’re you?” she barked, face hard as concrete and almost as cracked, and strode forward to pick up his wand.

“Bernard?!” said the Prime Minister, almost more shocked than before, stepping out of the corner.

“Um, yes, Prime Minister. You see, I thought - uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I didn’t realise, that is...” he licked his lips and tried to lean away from the wand still pointed at his throat. “I thought you might have been in trouble,” he managed. “But I can see that I was wrong, so I’ll just be going now thank you very much,” he spilled the last sentence out in a tumble, and turned rapidly on his heels.

“Hold it just a minute, boyo,” said the Minister. There was a blast of magic, and the office door slammed shut, repairing itself instantly.

“Yes, Bernard, wait,” echoed the Prime Minister, in a high, slightly desperate voice.

Bernard turned back around, very aware that he was outnumbered both by politicians and by power and that they were all focused exclusively on him. Never a good situation.

“I’d like to know who you are,” said the Minister, examining his wand. “I didn’t know the Aurors had anyone in the Prime Minister’s office.”

“They haven’t,” said Bernard hurriedly, catching the Prime Minister’s shocked glance. “I’m Bernard Woolley, the Prime Minister’s principal private secretary. I mean, that’s all I am. I’m not in the Ministry, I’m here off my own bat.”

The Minister frowned, a kind of pinched, disagreeable look, but handed him his wand back. He tucked it away quickly in his breast pocket. “So, uh, if that’s all, I’ll just be...”

“That is _not_ all, Bernard,” cut in the Prime Minister, half way between desperation and irritation. “The Minister here has just been telling me that there’s an entire population of, of _wizards_ that no one knows about living along side us. Effectively a separate country within Britain living in complete secrecy, with their own schools and taxes and - and government!”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” said Bernard, reluctantly.

“And that’s all true, is it?”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

The Prime Minister wiped at his forehead, and sank down into an easy chair. “I just can’t believe it.”

“Which, Prime Minister? The magic, or the second government?”

“Both!” snapped the Prime Minister, looking up at him. “And you’ve known about it all this time, and never told me?”

Bernard took up his usual stonewalling pose, feet together and hands behind his back. “Well, apart from the fact that you probably would have thought I’d gone crackers, it’s rather frowned upon.”

“Rather frowned upon,” echoed the Prime Minister weakly. “An entire segment of the population out there that we never knew about!”

“Yes, sir, but they don’t vote for you so it doesn’t matter much, does it?” said Bernard, appealing directly to vanity.

“Not everything is about votes, Bernard!”

“If you say so, Prime Minister.”

“I do say so. Just think of all the good we could do with the help of the magical community -”

“No, Prime Minister,” cut in both Bernard and the Minister, the Minister both the louder and sharper of the two. She continued on, drawing herself up like a bull preparing to trample. “The magical and muggle - non-magical - communities must remain separate. No good comes of trying to combine them. Wizards don’t understand muggles, and muggles want all their problems solved by magic. It all leads to fear and envy and, ultimately, war. There have been many very nasty historical incidents when large populations became aware of wizards. It never ends well. That is why we have an entire department dedicated solely to ensuring muggles never come to learn of our existence.”

“And how do they do that?”

“By enforcing strict rules pertaining to the use of magic in front of muggles and, if necessary, tweaking memories.”

“You mean you brainwash people?” said the Prime Minister, horrified.

“No, just a little forgetfulness. Only a few minutes. It is much better than the alternative, believe you me,” she said, sternly. The Prime Minister’s mouth flapped open.

“But, but, but what happens if there is an incident between us and you - that is, wizards. Something requiring police involvement, or court adjudication?”

“Then it is sorted out by the Ministry. Frankly, magic is too complicated to expect a jury of muggles to understand it even if we were prepared to make our presence public. Much simpler to do everything from the wizarding side, if absolutely necessary. But such incidents are very rare. You may rest assured that I will notify you if any occur, but it is unlikely.”

“Even now?” asked Bernard.

The Minister’s eyes flashed to him, momentarily angry and impatient, before she turned back briskly to the Prime Minister.

“What do you mean?” he asked, glancing at Bernard and then back to her. She took up a brisk tone.

“There’s been some slight unrest in the community. A group of purists have been instigating some unpleasantness. The Ministry is taking the matter in hand, and we will be coming down on them very severely."

Bernard opened his mouth, and then thought the better of it and shut it again. The Minister continued without noticing.

"You may rest assured that everything which can be done is being done.”

The Prime Minister gave a dry laugh. “I’ve heard that before. Is this likely to reflect on us? If it’s going to affect the vo - people, I must insist that I be given all the details.”

“We are working very hard to ensure that does not happen. Again, if there are further developments you will certainly be informed. You may always contact me at any time through the portrait, although like yourself I have a very busy schedule, and so I would ask that you please only contact me if really necessary.” She stepped over to the fireplace behind the desk, and lit a fire with her wand. “I wish you a good term, Prime Minister.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you. Er, thanks very much. You as well, of course,” stammered the Prime Minister, recognizing the meeting as finished and standing up. He stared as she pulled a palm-full of floo powder from a pocket of her robes and threw it into the flames. They blazed green and she stepped in, giving the address in a low voice. A moment later, she was gone.

Bernard, foreseeing a future full of awkward questions, began inching towards the door. He made it almost a yard before the Prime Minister swivelled to face him. “Bernard!”

He stopped, straightening guiltily. “Yes, Prime Minister?”

“I want to know more about this.”

Bernard licked his lips again. “Um, in what way precisely?”

“In every way, Bernard! Out of nowhere this woman shows up in my fireplace to tell me that there is a secret world of witches and wizards, and a minute later my private secretary bangs in and turns out to be one of them!”

“Well as I already said, Prime Minister, I couldn’t have told you before -”

“Yes, yes, very well.” The Prime Minister waved that aside, and, sitting down again indicated the chair across from him. Bernard crossed to it reluctantly and slowly sank into it, as if expecting to find himself sitting on something unpleasant. The Prime Minister leant forward and took off his glasses. “Now. I want to know more about this,” he repeated. “For one thing, what are you about being a private secretary if you’re actually a wizard.” He gestured at Bernard’s breast pocket.

Bernard pulled out his wand, greasy and scratched from decades of poor care, and spun it absently in his fingers. “Well, Prime Minister,” he began wretchedly, “the wizarding world is... well, it’s _disorganized_.”

“Disorganised,” said the Prime Minister, brows wrinkling.

“Yes, sir. Extremely.” Bernard sighed. “You see, my mother was a witch but my father was just a normal person - a muggle, they call it - and her parents were half and half as well, so there wasn’t any strong tradition of magic in my family. It wasn’t very important in my home life, just a kind of ... added extra. Then I got my letter, and went off to Hogwarts - the wizarding school, Prime Minister. All British children with enough magic to be witches or wizards go there to be trained - it’s not just for education, magic can be dangerous if you’re not taught how to use it properly. That is, if you have a lot of it. I never did. But living entirely in the wizarding community for the first time I found... you’ve only ever met one witch, and a wizard I suppose if you count me, although you shouldn’t, so it’s a bit hard to explain." Finding himself to be wittering, he tried to draw his thoughts together. "The wizarding world... imagine the people in it as the most bizarre and eclectic collection of the worst of the grassroots committees, and you’ll have some idea.”

The Prime Minister shivered slightly. “Surely it’s not that bad.”

“Worse, if anything, I’m afraid. Magic allows a huge amount of power, and that allows for a huge level of individualism. You see, Prime Minister, if you or I needed anything... say, to build a house, or fix a car, we wouldn’t know how to do it ourselves. We would need to hire someone else. We’re used to working with people in teams, our whole civilization depends on it. Wizards don’t have that - they can do so much with magic they have very little need to form large collective relationships, and as a consequence herding cats is nothing to it. And along with that the need for order or planning of any significant nature ends up going out the window. Wizards have a shocking lack of practicality. Of course there are a few with a bent in that direction, who spend their time trying to organize the unorganizable and generally end up going round the bend, but the majority couldn’t write a decent schedule if their lives depended on it.”

“Unfortunate I’m sure, but planning isn’t everything, Bernard. After all, who wouldn’t want to be able to fly, or throw fire, or turn their Cabinet colleagues into canaries? The Minister turned my book-ends into a pair of frogs,” said the Prime Minister enthusiastically.

“People are a bit harder, Prime Minister. In any case, I was never much good at transfiguring or charms - not much power, really, only precision - so I took the most objective courses I could - runes, arithmancy, astronomy, languages - and then as soon as I'd finished, I turned around and went up to Oxford. Left it all behind me, and not too regretfully. Apart from everything else, there’s something a bit, well, almost sinister about magic. At least, I always thought so.”

“What d’you mean? Too much eye of newt, and all that?”

Bernard twitched his mouth into a slight grin, and then relapsed into a serious expression. “No, Prime Minister. It develops dependence. Almost like a drug, really. The absolute dependence some witches and wizards place on their magic... if they didn’t have their wands, I’m sure they couldn’t figure out how to open doors for themselves.”

“But surely it’s just like an extra appendage. If you have it, why not use it?”

“Maybe, Prime Minister. But I’ve always felt that just because you have two hands doesn’t mean you ought to forget how to use one of them. If you took their magic away from them, a lot of them probably would actually die - starve, or burn their houses down, or be killed in some easily-avoidable accident. But they know that all around them, the rest of the world is somehow managing just fine. And that kind of fear and lack of understanding creates contempt. There’s a significant amount of disgust and even hatred held of non-wizards. Of course, it used to be worse than it is now. But wizards have such a hard time contemplating life without their magic that to them non-magical people seem almost like a different species. Sometimes,” he said, slowly, “like an inferior species.”

The Prime Minister frowned. “Then that thing you mentioned, that the Minister denied being important...?”

“There’s been a recent rise of popular anger against people from non-wizarding families becoming wizards. It happens quite randomly; every year a small portion of wizards and witches are both to completely non-magical families. It doesn’t seem to make any difference to their magic; it’s usually as strong as those descended from very old families. But it’s prompted a lot of very ugly talk about dirty blood and inferiority. Which is where this new man comes in. I noticed the signs, and started taking the Prophet - the wizarding newspaper.”

“The signs?”

“Strange accidents, violent unexplained deaths. You remember that flood in Portsmouth? And the freak lightning storm in Chelsea? And that house blown apart by the exploding gas main up in Edinburg?”

“You mean - those were wizards?”

“Almost certainly.”

“But, the Minister said she would tell me if there were any incidents like that!”

“And I expect she told your predecessor, Prime Minister. Probably,” conceded Bernard. “Those incidents didn’t occur during your tenure, so I suppose she felt you didn’t need to know about them.”

The Prime Minister stared, wide-eyed. “And these... attacks... were the doings of this group of, what? Racists?”

“Yes, Prime Minister. The Death Eaters, according to the newspapers. Their leader is referred to as He Who Must Not Be Named.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“He Who Must Not Be Named, Prime Minister. Names have a very real power in the wizarding world, and there’s a lot of superstition of them. Probably people are afraid of his name.”

The Prime Minister sat up and slapped his knee. “But that’s ridiculous!”

“Probably,” allowed Bernard. “But there does seem to be a good deal of concern. And, from what I’ve read, not without reason. It’s a good thing the wards here are so strong,” he added, glancing at the door.

The Prime Minister ignored the digression. “Could you get this paper delivered to me?”

Bernard stiffened his shoulders to keep himself from shuddering at the thought of owls swooping in and out of Number 10, or the Prime Minister leaving copies of the paper about, front-page pictures waving at all passers-by. “That might not be a good idea, Prime Minister. After all, if someone saw it, there would be trouble. And it would be quite confusing, too. But if you like, I could mark the articles in your morning paper pertaining to magic.”

“Very well, do that then.”

“Yes, Prime Minister.” Bernard, recognizing a gap in the conversation, rose. “Will that be all?”

The Prime Minister sighed, and rubbed at his eyes. “Yes, I suppose so. No - Bernard?”

“Yes, Prime Minister?”

“D’you suppose I could see it? Just for a moment?” The Prime Minister’s eyes dropped to his wand, with almost childish excitement. Bernard, suppressing a smile, passed it over.

The Prime Minister turned it over in his fingers, examining it closely. “You could just break off any stick, and...” he flourished the wand, making a _swishh_ sound between his teeth. "Instant newt?"

“Oh, no, sir. They’re made specially, with a magical core. That one has dragon heartstring in it.”

“Dragon?!” The Prime Minister fumbled with it, and only just caught it. Looked up at Bernard uncertainly. “You’re joking.”

“No, Prime Minister. All wands take their cores from a fantastic animal. The British wandmaker uses dragons, unicorns and phoenixes.”

“Haa...” the Prime Minister sat back, looking shocked. Bernard unobtrusively twitched his wand from the man’s limp fingers, and returned it to his pocket. He backed away on silent feet, heading for the door. The Prime Minister’s voice recalled him when he was nearly there.

“Bernard?”

Bernard turned to see the Prime Minister sitting up, looking suddenly bright and attentive and just slightly conspiratorial.

“Yes, Prime Minister?”

“I say, d’you think Humphrey knows about all this?”

Bernard blinked, and then smiled faintly. “I shouldn’t think so, Prime Minister. It's extremely classified, after all.”

The Prime Minister’s face split into a wide grin. “Finally. Something I know that he doesn’t!”

Bernard bowed slightly as he opened the door behind him. “Yes, Prime Minister.”


End file.
